had closed his door behind him. I thanked him fervently in
my heart for his protection. How could I meet this woman now? And yet
she had seemed only selfishly mischievous, and I must not be a coward,
so I came out of the inner room at once. A change swept over her face
when I appeared. The haughty careless spirit gave place to gentleness,
and, as always, she was very pretty. Nothing of the look or manner was
lost on John Baronet, and his pity for her only strengthened his opinion
of my insincerity.

"Good-bye, Philip. We shall meet again soon, I hope. Good-bye, Judge
Baronet." Her voice was soft and full of sadness. She smiled upon us
both and turned to go.

My father led her down the courthouse steps and helped her into the
stage. When he came back I did not look up. There was nothing for me to
say. Quietly, as though nothing had occurred, he took up his work, his
face as impenetrable as Jean Pahusca's.

My resemblance to my mother is strong. As I bent over his desk to gather
up some papers for copying, my heavy dark hair almost brushed his cheek.
I did not know then how his love for me was struggling with his sense of
duty.

"I have trusted him too much, and given him too free a rein. He doesn't
know yet how to value a woman's feelings. He must learn his lesson now.
But he shall not go away without my blessing."

So he mused.

"Philip," his voice was as kind as it was firm, "we shall see what the
days will bring. Your mother's spirit may be guiding you, and your
father's love is always with you. Whatever snarls and tangles have
gotten into your threads, time and patience will straighten and
unravel. Whatever wrong you may have done, willingly or unwillingly,
you must make right. There is no other way."

"Father," I replied in a voice as firm as his own. "Father, I have done
no wrong."

Once more he looked steadily into my eyes and through them down into my
very soul. "Phil, I believe you. These things will soon pass away."

In the early twilight I went for the last time to "Rockport." There are
sadder things than funeral rites. The tragedies of life do not always
ring down the curtain leaving the stage strewn with the forms of the
slain. Oftener they find the living actor following his lines and doing
his part of the play as if all life were a comedy. The man of sixty
years may smile at the intensity of feeling in the boy of twenty-one,
but that makes it no easier for the boy. I watched the sun go down that